


Push

by awrenawry



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Present Tense, play piercing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awrenawry/pseuds/awrenawry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's quiet about it, but he notices these kind of things. It's just what he does. </p><p>He notices, maybe, because he's looking too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic(-ish thing) in this fandom. I know nothing about comics canon and have only seen the movie once. Ahem. On to the kink.
> 
> Also posted at [Avengerkink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6021.html?thread=8424069#t8424069).

He sees her looking, when they're babysitting Thor on yet another expedition to the mall. Thor's gone back for a second round of hot dogs. They're alone in the bustling food court, picking at what's left of round one, when the kid with the snakebite brushes by their table.  
  
Her eyes follow him; he can see her run her tongue across her own lip, probing the spot just where the metal would protrude through the skin.   
  
She's quiet about it, but he notices these kind of things. It's just what he does.   
  
He notices, maybe, because he's looking too.  
  
"It's not very practical." She says.  
  
He shrugs, shaking the cup, nudging the straw down through the slowly-melting ice to fish out the last bit of soda. She's right, of course. In their line of work, memorable is dangerous. They may run with a flashy crowd, these days, but they still follow their own rules. "It's nice, though."  
  
She makes a noncommittal noise--it's not agreement, quite--but doesn't say anything else, just watches the silver flash as the kid smiles.  
  
They fool around sometimes, because it's easier than trying to explain their fucked-up life to an outsider. It doesn't mean anything. The next time they do, he leaves his kit out on top of the dresser because privacy is a word for people who haven't done what they've done. They don't have those boundaries. They push.  
  
She sees it when she gets up looking for a condom. He watches her, splayed out on the bed where she left him, while she opens it. He can't see inside, from this angle, but he knows what's in there. The kit is freshly stocked with the needles he swiped on his last tour through the infirmary. He likes the hypodermics. He likes to reclaim the pain. The colors are fun, too. He also stocks three types of sanitizer and two different sizes of black nitrile gloves.   
  
She tips the lid closed, grabs a condom, and turns back to the bed. She doesn't say anything, but her eyes are thoughtful. He opens his arms for her.  
  
Afterwards, as he lies under her, panting, she leans in and runs the sharp edge of her nail over the swell of his lip and he can't help it, he shudders, because he knows what she's thinking.  
  
"Please." He whispers. And this isn't okay. This isn't something they do. They don't ask. They don't need, like this. But he wants... " Please ."  
  
"You'll have to show me." She says.  
  
"Okay." He says, and brings the kit to the bed.  
  
He hands her the gloves first, because they're exposed to a lot of blood in their line of work and now that aliens are involved, HIV has become the least of his worries.  
  
He watches her slip them on and feels a unique kind of quiet steal across his mind. She hands him a 20g hypodermic, still neatly capped. "Show me." She never repeats herself. He doesn't know what to make of it.  
  
He holds out his arm between them, takes the needle from her, and slips off the cap. "Like this." He gathers up the skin between his thumb and ring finger. "Pinch. And slide." He holds the needle between his index and middle finger and presses firmly.  
  
It's difficult, one handed, but he has practice.  
  
The needle slides smoothly through the skin, in and back out. There's no blood. The skin is peaked, still, where the steel tunnels through it; the area around it reddens, like blushing. It doesn't hurt.  
  
She makes a little mewling noise of want and he finds himself smiling. He's hard again, but everything feels distant, calm and heavy. He takes his hand away, leaving the needle nestled in the curve of his bicep. She reaches up and flicks the hub and then it's his turn to gasp.  
  
She flicks it harder and watches him squirm. He likes that.  
  
"Please," he says, again. He trusts her hands on him. Whatever else there is between them, there will always that.  
  
"Whatever you need." She says, and slides another needle from the box.


End file.
